River Run
by Tiffany Park
Summary: While searching for a missing SG team on an alien world, SG-3 encounters a dry riverbed filled with pretty flowers. Crossover with the Sci-Fi Channel's "Chain Reaction" alien artichokes. Rated M for language and some violence.


TITLE: River Run

AUTHOR: Tiffany Park

STATUS: Complete

CATEGORY: Action/Adventure, Drama, Crossover.

SPOILERS: None

SEASON: Season One

PAIRINGS: None

RATING: R

CONTENT WARNINGS: Profanity, violence.

SUMMARY: While searching for a missing SG team on an alien world, SG-3 encounters a dry riverbed filled with pretty flowers. Crossover with the Sci-Fi Channel's "Chain Reaction" alien artichokes.

ARCHIVE: Please ask.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. The flowering alien artichokes are the property of the Sci-Fi Channel. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to my beta readers, Bruni and Jess, for putting up with me. I even took some of their advice.

* * *

**River Run**

**by**

**Tiffany Park**

The meteor screamed through the atmosphere, a blazing fireball that traced an arcing, downward path through the lavender sky. It crashed into a large plain of bluish grasslands, careening through the scrub and gouging a fiery trail in the earth, until finally friction slowed it and it came to a stop.

Almost immediately, its fibrous outer husk split apart and fell away, revealing an egg-shaped pod. Harsh, reddish sunlight gleamed off its mottled green and brown carapace, giving it an almost mechanical appearance, as though it were some abominable fusion of plant and machine. A drill-tipped, flexible tube extended from one rounded end and burrowed into the ground, dragging the pod down with it into the hole.

In the wake of the pod's disappearance there was utter silence. No creature stirred, not one insect buzzed—even the air was stilled. The preternatural quiet lasted but a few moments, then it was broken by a groaning from deep underground. The grasses trembled and shivered as the earth rumbled.

With a loud boom, a violent tremor shook the firmament. A wave of solid earth rolled out across the plain from the point of the pod's impact. It traveled through the flatlands, flowed into the gullies and chasms and valleys, impeded only by rocky geographic barriers, cliffs and landfalls, to be ultimately halted by inconvenient mountain ranges and immense, almost bottomless canyons. As it passed over the countryside, thousands upon thousands of green shoots erupted from the ground and matured with unnatural speed, until the entire plain was filled with succulent plants. Then the earth was quiet once more.

The new plants were composed of sharp, fleshy leaves of dark green shading to red at the tips. The leaves spiraled in layers around a central stalk and tapered off to a blunt point, resulting in an ovoid form reminiscent of an artichoke. From the base of each plant sprouted four long, bud-tipped stems and a number of delicate, curling tendrils. The buds burst open in the heat of the midday sun, displaying flowers in all the colors of the rainbow. A sweet scent wafted into the air.

Although no wind touched the newly flowered plain, the blossoms swayed gently and the tendrils twisted and twined among themselves. A lacy-winged insect fluttered close to the field in search of nectar, drawn by the promise inherent in the brilliant colors and fragrant perfume.

In a flash a tendril shot out and snagged the insect, coiling around the small creature like a snake. The top of a plant opened wide, revealing a deep maw lined with sharp teeth. The tendril deposited the insect into that gaping mouth and retreated. The plant closed up and contracted as though swallowing, then it was still once more.

* * *

Colonel Makepeace stepped out of the Stargate's event horizon and into the bloody red sunlight of 2YZ-149. He quickly moved off the stone dais the Stargate rested on to wait as his team followed him onto the hot, dusty, oppressive planet.

As they came through, he made a quick check of the DHD and the MALP. Satisfied that both were in good working order, he turned to his team and ordered, "All right, spread out. Let's find 'em fast so we can get our asses off this miserable dirtball and pound down a few brews." The rest of SG-3—Lieutenant Johnson, Sergeant Andrews, and Corporal Henderson—all grinned at him, then immediately set to surveying the area for any signs of human activity, all the while expressing their opinion of the local environment in their usual creative and moderately profane manner.

Miserable was certainly the right word for the place, Makepeace mused as he shielded his eyes and scanned the countryside. A bloated red sun dominated the cloudless and pale purple—purple!—sky. There was nothing like a weird color, whether of sky, of earth or sea, or of vegetation or wildlife, to bring home the fact that one was standing on a completely alien world. As he gazed upwards, Makepeace vaguely remembered something in the pre-mission briefing about nitrogen being responsible for blue skies, and weird inert gases in this planet's atmosphere scattering purple light, and an aged sun, just turning off the main sequence into the early stages of dying, with red as its dominant wavelength.

Amazing how even that much of the techie crap had stuck. Jesus, if he wasn't careful, the science guys would turn him into some kind of candy-assed techno-geek.

The purple sky was pretty much the only thing on this rock that was even remotely attractive, at least to human eyes.

Hot, dry, dusty, arid—it all worked out to "absolutely miserable." Makepeace felt himself sweating, but the air seemed to suck the moisture away before it could collect into any droplets. The MALP readings indicated there was actually some humidity in the air, but at just that moment Makepeace found it hard to believe. It looked like the place probably hadn't seen rain in weeks, if not months. Maybe years. The dun-colored earth was parched, although not quite barren. Grayish-blue clumps of stiff, prickly grasses dotted the landscape, but the pathetic vegetation only added to the overall impression of bleak desiccation. Hell, it even smelled dry. Makepeace scratched his suddenly itchy nose and repressed a sneeze.

Sometimes, Makepeace mused grumpily, it seemed like SG-3 drew more than its fair share of assignments to godforsaken rocks like this. When he was feeling a little paranoid he wondered if it wasn't all a great big conspiracy, if the damn zoomies didn't work out the schedule that way deliberately. Although, to be fair, SG-7 was a regular zoomie team and they had drawn this particular godforsaken rock well before SG-3. Yeah, and look what it got them: eight hours overdue.

On most of the worlds the SGC visited, worlds that had been terraformed by the Goa'uld or other aliens into something humans could easily survive on, an overdue team might be allotted some extra grace time to find its own way home, depending upon the experience of the team and its commander, and given the caveat that no hostile activity had been reported in the vicinity. On an inhospitable world like this, half a day might very well be too long to wait. It was a hell of a rotten place to get stranded or lost.

Makepeace resignedly wondered what sort of trouble SG-7 might have run into on this dust ball. He hated deserts, himself—heat that fried the brains during the day, and the nights usually got cold enough to freeze a man's balls off. And if the extremes of the climate weren't bad enough, deserts always held nasty surprises like scorpions, poisonous bugs, snakes and other lizards, and just to make things perfect, revolting carrion scavengers. Makepeace doubted that this alien desert would be any better than its Earthly counterparts. It was best to assume that, like an Earth desert, and in spite of appearances and incomplete MALP surveys to the contrary, there was more to 2YZ-149 than cracked dirt and rocks, scrubby grasses, and purple sky.

It was doubtful that any predator would give them any trouble. SG-3 were all armed with M4 carbines, equipped with M203 grenade launchers mounted under the rifle barrels. Additionally, they all carried extra magazines and a wide assortment of explosives, as well as their usual survival gear. The firepower pretty much ensured that even large animals were unlikely to be a problem. Makepeace figured if anything on this planet caused his team difficulties, it would be the small critters: 2YZ-149's equivalent of snakes and bugs. Or the heat. He wondered idly if the three canteens that each man carried would be enough for the twelve-hour mission.

His thoughts were interrupted when Henderson called out, "Colonel, I've got some tracks here."

Makepeace walked over to Henderson, who was crouched low over the ground. He peered over the corporal's shoulder, moving aside slightly when Johnson and Andrews joined him. A number of partial boot prints were sharply marked in the crumbly soil, hardly deteriorated at all, no doubt due to the lack of rain or strong wind. Henderson straightened and said, "It's them, sir. Four men, in standard issue boots. The tracks lead off thataway." He pointed toward a low mountain range that was barely visible in the hazy distance.

"Wonderful," Andrews muttered. "Miles and miles of dust and rocks."

Makepeace grimaced. "All right, Marines, we've got our trail. Let's move out." He adjusted his pack and started walking briskly, using the footprints as his guide. The rest of SG-3 followed after him.

* * *

SG-3 spent the better part of an hour hiking through the desert, following the trail of boot prints left by the wayward SG-7. A while back a mild breeze had kicked up, strong enough to make the patches of grass whisper, too light to cool the temperature down any. Makepeace heard Andrews gripe that it needed to be stronger, heard Johnson curse as a small dust devil spun into existence and grew into a tall, fragile column, raising irritating particles of grit into the air where they could get into eyes, noses, throats. Makepeace coughed, stifled his own curses, and plowed on. At least the wind wasn't strong enough to completely obscure SG-7's tracks. The trail was still reasonably clear, although the lines of the boot prints had softened, the tread blurring from sharp imprints to rounded mounds of loose earth.

The dust devil whirled away aimlessly, traveling along the dry ground until it crashed into a granite boulder. The delicate vortex unraveled, the strands of dirt flying in all directions and dissipating into arid haze.

Without slowing his gait, Makepeace unhooked one of his canteens from his belt and took a healthy swig. He had to admit that, while dry and hot and generally unpleasant, the trip could have been a whole lot worse. Contrary to his initial apprehensions about reptiles, insects, and other desert critters, so far SG-3 had been untroubled by the native fauna. Some birdlike, flying creatures and a small variety of bugs had been the extent of the local wildlife that ventured into their vicinity, and fortunately those had been uninterested in sampling any new cuisine. Occasionally, they heard a strange, screeching yowl in the far distance, but nothing ever approached. They kept their rifles ready, just in case.

The terrain was becoming increasingly rocky. The trail was getting more difficult to follow, the partial boot prints coming few and far between as the ground hardened underfoot. Makepeace squinted up his eyes, scanning ahead for another track. Henderson called out and pointed off to one side. "That way."

"Yeah, that figures," Makepeace said with a small sigh. The indistinct tracks led off toward a jumbled line of rocks. Nothing but sky and the ever-distant mountains were visible beyond.

Those rocks looked distinctly unfriendly; where they weren't crumbling they had an awful lot of sharp, broken edges. Shimmers of heated air radiated from their sun-baked surfaces. The idea of scrabbling over them was unappealing, to say the least, but if that was where SG-7 had gone...

Johnson moved into the lead and climbed up onto a flat boulder. There he stood, staring outwards. After a moment, he half-turned and called down, "You guys have got to see this."

The rest of SG-3 quickly clambered up to join their teammate, and gazed outward at the tableau that had been hidden by the piles of rocks and had transfixed Johnson. From the point they were standing, the land sloped sharply downward into a wide valley that had all the earmarks of having been carved out by a once mighty river. But now, instead of water, the valley's mile-wide riverbed was filled to overflowing with flowers. Red, blue, yellow, pink, violet—a thick profusion of rainbow-hued blossoms waved gently in the breeze, producing a hypnotic, rippling motion in the masses of color. Here and there boulders rose above the vivid floral waves, like small islands in a magical sea. A few of the native "birds" soared gracefully through the valley, catching thermals to rise, and then swooping back down again, over and over, as though they couldn't bear to leave it behind.

Makepeace stared down at the vista, almost physically stunned by the riot of color that assailed his eyes. After the endless beiges and grays of the desert, washed with ruddiness by the sickly light from the sun, and the hazy lavender pastels of the cloudless sky, the floral brilliance was shocking, almost painful to the eye. A gentle, beguiling fragrance wafted up to him on the breeze. Makepeace took a deep breath, inhaling the perfume that was a curious, almost intoxicating mixture of lily-of-the-valley and roses, gilded with subtle hints of the lilacs his mother used to cultivate in her garden. Unaware, he smiled.

"Whoa," Andrews said, blinking rapidly. "Who woulda guessed that this armpit of a planet's got anything like this on it?" He retrieved a digital camcorder from his pack and proceeded to tape the panorama, sweeping the camera from side to side.

"It is kinda pretty," Johnson commented quietly.

Thinking that "kinda pretty" was something of an understatement, Makepeace permitted himself one last look at the valley then turned to Henderson. "SG-7 went this way?"

Henderson nodded. "See that outcropping down there," he said, pointing. A collection of partial prints was etched in the dirt that caked the rocky surface. "Maybe they wanted to get a plant sample?"

"Great. They decided to go pick posies. So where are they now?" Shrugs greeted Makepeace's question. He pulled out his binoculars and scanned the far side of the valley. A flash of light stabbed his eyes, magnified into brilliance by the lenses. "What the hell—?"

"Sir?" Johnson asked.

Makepeace handed him the binoculars. "Something shiny over there," he said, indicating the direction the flash had come from. "About one o'clock."

Johnson lifted the binoculars to his face. "Yeah, I got it. Wonder what it is? Crystals, maybe?"

"Or maybe something more interesting," Henderson added. He had pulled out his own binoculars and was scrutinizing the area. "This is an old world. The sun's on its last legs. Maybe some long dead civilization left something behind."

"You're dreamin'," Andrews scoffed. "We haven't seen hide nor hair of anything like that on this rock."

"Maybe we have, now," Makepeace said. "Either way, SG-7 would have wanted to check it out."

"Well, they definitely went down. I can pick up their trail again once we're at the bottom," Henderson said confidently.

Makepeace checked his watch. "We got ten and a half hours left before they start frettin' back home. That should give us plenty of time. Let's go."

* * *

Although the climb down the slope appeared to be fairly easy at first glance, in actuality it was an exercise in insecurity. The seemingly solid hand- and footholds among the jutting rocks and ledges had a disconcerting tendency to crumble away at inopportune times. Once Henderson lost his grip and started to slide, but Johnson snagged him by the collar and held him until he could find another handhold. Fortunately, that was the worst mishap. By the time the Marines were at the bottom, all were covered in dust and grime, with minute scratches and scrapes on their hands. The four men took a moment to catch their breath and slather some antibiotic ointment onto the worst of their cuts, then investigated their surroundings.

They were standing on the stony bank of the riverbed. Behind them the valley wall sloped up sharply, before them the river of flowers beckoned. The wind was stronger in the valley, and the flowers nodded and bobbed in accompaniment to the hot breeze, their perfume swirling heavily around them. In spite of the vegetation, the air was still bone dry. Makepeace wiped his forehead with his sleeve, silently cursing all deserts throughout the universe.

He looked around curiously. Down here, the whole organisms could be seen, rather than just the flowers that had been visible from above. Pointy, fleshy leaves spiraled to form a rounded, egg shape. The leaves were a deep, shiny green that shaded to blood red at their tips. Each plant had four flowers sprouting from its base, and a number of coiled tendrils that Makepeace took to be some kind of creepers or runners. The flowers and tendrils shivered in another gust of wind. Something about their motion bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and put his unease down to the alien environment throwing off his instincts.

Johnson moved to the edge of the riverbank and took a closer look at the alien flora. "Weird," he said. "They look kinda like artichokes."

"Flowering artichokes," Andrews clarified. "Anyone hungry?"

"Gimme a break," Makepeace said humorously. "You guys've probably never even gotten within fifty feet of an artichoke, let alone seen one up close and personal on your dinner plate."

Johnson grinned at him. "What about you, sir?"

"Never touch 'em."

Henderson went down on his hands and knees and inspected the edge of the riverbed. "Shouldn't be too bad," he said. "The plants aren't too close together. We'll be able to follow the trail without too much trouble." He looked at Makepeace. "Looks like SG-7 was heading off toward that shiny whatever-it-is on the other side, sir."

"Okay, we go that way. Henderson, you got point," Makepeace said.

Henderson nodded and hopped down into the sea of color. The flowers were fairly tall; most came up to mid thigh, and a few brushed his waist. The deep red tips of the topmost leaves reached his calf. When the other three Marines also jumped off the bank, he moved into the lead and set off at an oblique angle to the opposite riverbank.

The four men carefully made their way through the exotic vegetation. No one wanted to go tramping around and damaging the flowers if it could be avoided. That actually wasn't difficult to accomplish, since the plants were spaced roughly two to three feet apart from one another. They had only seemed to be close together because of the masses of blossoms.

As a result, SG-3 made quicker progress through the riverbed than they had expected. The trail was clear and fairly easy to see, and the footing was reasonably good. Roughly one third of the way across, Henderson called a halt. "Something's wrong," he announced with a perplexed expression. "Something happened."

"Explain," ordered Makepeace.

Henderson pushed aside a cluster of multihued blooms. "Look here. The tracks get disorganized and scattered." He indicated a particularly scuffled area. "Someone either fell or was pulled over, maybe dragged. And there, looks like they started running." Henderson straightened. "It was like SG-7 was attacked, sir, but there aren't any other tracks showing but theirs."

Makepeace frowned and glanced around, peering at the trampled earth through the distracting foliage. A brassy gleam caught his eye. He bent down and retrieved a spent 5.56-millimeter cartridge case. "Definitely attacked by something." He fingered the case pensively and scanned the ground. More cartridges dotted the landscape. A lot more.

"Sir, there aren't any other tracks. Nothing to indicate—"

"An air attack?" Andrews interrupted. "Maybe death gliders."

"There's no blast marks," Johnson countered. "There might be some kind of flying predators, though."

All four men immediately looked up. They readied their weapons with the unconscious ease of long practice, but only the birdlike creatures could be seen sailing overhead.

"All right, SG-7 was attacked. They opened fire," Makepeace summarized, rolling the bullet casing between his fingers. "They were running. So where did they go?"

Henderson frowned. "The marks are pretty disorganized. We'll have to spiral out from this point to pick up where they regrouped, assuming they—"

"Is that blood?" Johnson interjected. He moved off slightly and held a few flowers aside. A large, dark brown stain was visible on the ground at the base of a very fat artichoke.

"Damn," Makepeace said. "What the hell happened here?"

The hot, dry wind gusted abruptly. The plant's flowers swung gently, and even its tendrils shifted over the dirt.

"That thing moved," Andrews said, fingering his rifle uneasily.

"It's just the wind," Johnson told him. "Don't get spooked."

Henderson turned around and watched another plant's tendrils twitch and coil. "No, he's right. Those vine-things are moving on that one, too, and the wind sure as hell isn't causing it."

The four men stared at one another. "Oh, shit," Andrews whispered, wide-eyed. "You don't think—"

"Let's not take any chances," Makepeace said, warily surveying the area. "Let's head back. Carefully."

"Hell," Johnson muttered. He swung his M4 carbine around in an arc over the dry riverbed. The flowers bobbed to some internal rhythm. He licked his lips, watched the blooms with deep suspicion.

"Move," Makepeace ordered his men, herding them back to the safety of the riverbank. He finally understood why the waving motion of the flowers had been bothering him, and kicked himself mentally for not realizing it sooner. He should have seen that the motion didn't quite match the small gusts of wind. In fact, the flowers moved even when the air was still. In areas where the vegetation was sparser, he could see the tendrils squirming ever so slightly around the squat, leafy bodies.

The damned things were animate, and judging by the circumstantial evidence, carnivorous.

As SG-3 practically tiptoed back toward the riverbank, the activity around them increased. It was now impossible to associate the movement of leaves, blossoms, and runners with the wind.

"Look alive," Johnson warned his teammates. "Something's happening."

The words had barely left his mouth when, with a sharp cry, Henderson went down. Makepeace's head whipped around at the sound. "Henderson!" he called, seeing the thin vine wrapped around the corporal's ankle. He reached for his knife.

"Get it off me!" Henderson yelled. He clawed at the ground as he was dragged toward a large artichoke. The leaves at its top spread and opened wide, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth lining a deep, red gullet.

"Jesus H!" Andrews grabbed Henderson's wrists to keep him from being pulled any closer to that gaping mouth. Johnson opened up with his M4, the hail of lead shattering the plant into a million wet, gooey pieces.

Andrews hastily unwound the vine from Henderson's ankle and helped him up. The quartet stood in a tight circle, almost back to back, covering the area with their weapons, breathing hard and watching the agitated motions of the alien vegetation surrounding them.

"Fuck this," Makepeace snarled. "These things aren't bulletproof. We'll cut a path right through them. Shoot the hell outta anything that gets in our way."

"You got it, boss." Johnson grinned ferally and started to blast a path through the foliage. In response, a tendril shot out, captured his wrist and yanked him off center. "Shit!" he shouted as his M4 flew out of his hands. It dangled from the rifle strap he'd looped around his arm, doing almost as much to screw up his balance as the vine around his wrist.

Suddenly, the entire area came alive with writhing green tentacles. Three vines lashed out and coiled around Andrews' legs and left arm. He screamed curses as he was pulled down. Makepeace and Henderson fired their M4s into the flowers, barely keeping the tendrils from assaulting them.

Johnson had his knife out, sawing at the vine entwining his wrist. Henderson pounded the area with bullets, managed to nail one of the three artichokes that were playing tug-of-war with Andrews. Makepeace swung his M4 around, raking the plants surrounding his men, and was forced to shift backwards to avoid several tendrils that probed blindly at him.

An iron cord wrapped itself around his calf and tightened, yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground with a jarring thud that knocked the wind out of him. Before he could gasp to fill his lungs, another vine coiled hard around his throat. He tried to call for help, but couldn't even draw breath. He clawed at the vine, attempting to loosen it enough so he could breathe, but another coil looped around his neck and crushed his fingers to his windpipe. He felt more vines wrap around him, felt himself dragged backwards, felt something wet enclose his foot and ankle.

White hot agony exploded in his leg. Makepeace opened his mouth to scream, but the chokehold on his neck was too tight for any air to pass through. He saw red and black streaks swirling before his eyes, distantly heard the staccato of automatic gunfire and the shouts of his men, then the roaring in his ears obliterated all external sound.

The plant's body rippled rhythmically, and Makepeace felt his leg swallowed almost up to the knee. The blinding pain that followed annihilated his tenuous hold on consciousness.

* * *

Johnson spat a steady stream of the vilest profanities he knew as he sawed at the vine around his wrist. The damned thing was as strong as steel, and almost as hard to cut. To one side, he heard the report of weapons' fire. Through his peripheral vision, he saw Andrews go down, surrounded by writhing tentacles, then a heartbeat later, Makepeace.

The sharp blade cut through the fibrous vine, and he was free. He took in the scene in an instant. Henderson was still on his feet, shooting at the plants that had taken Andrews down. One artichoke exploded, spraying sweet-scented goo everywhere, then another, then Henderson was helping Andrews to his feet. Andrews looked shaken, but had resolutely hung on to his rifle. Now both men were firing around them, creating a safe zone of vegetable puree.

Two accounted for. Johnson brought his M4 to his shoulder and panned it around as he peered down the sights, scanning for Makepeace. In a bare instant his eyes found their mark. Makepeace was about five yards away, lying on his back, his hands clutching at his throat. His left leg was bent at a sharp angle and engulfed to the knee by a bloodied alien artichoke. His right leg kicked weakly against the plant's hold. Flowers bobbed incongruously around him.

The plant contracted violently around the trapped limb. There was a sickening crunch. Makepeace jerked and went still. Fresh rivulets of blood trickled among the succulent leaves and pooled in the surrounding dust.

"Colonel!" Johnson ran to his CO, laying down fire to keep the grasping vines at bay. Just a few more steps...

At close range, it was clear that Makepeace was unconscious. His hands were bound to his throat by at least two vines. Other vines encircled his waist and legs. Johnson took aim, but hesitated. He couldn't just blow the thing to smithereens, not with Makepeace's leg inside it like that. The artichoke relaxed, stretched open its maw to draw in more of the colonel's left leg. Razor sharp teeth, stained bright red, came loose from torn flesh and started to clamp down again.

"Henderson! Andrews!" Johnson shouted. "Get over here!" He blasted clear a small area around Makepeace, then rushed forward and grabbed his CO under the armpits. Grunting with the effort, Johnson pulled back with all his strength to keep the artichoke from swallowing any more of Makepeace's leg. In response, the vines tightened to prevent their prey from escaping.

"Andrews! Henderson!" Johnson bellowed in desperation.

Then his two teammates were beside him, Andrews carving at the vines around Makepeace's neck while Henderson stitched nearby plants with his rifle.

Seconds later there was a loud snap as Andrews' knife cut through the vines. Makepeace's hands fell away from his throat and his head lolled free. Andrews uttered a muffled oath and moved forward, grasping Makepeace's trapped leg and wrenching it out of the artichoke's hungry mouth. Henderson immediately destroyed the plant with a quick burst of gunfire. The rest of the vines went lax, and Johnson staggered back, unbalanced by the sudden release of the body he held.

Quickly, he checked Makepeace's pulse. Still alive. Now free of the vines, Makepeace was breathing raggedly, but showed no signs of consciousness. Johnson frowned.

Andrews' shout of "Lieutenant!" grabbed his attention, and he turned his head to look at the sergeant, then down at the dirt the man was frantically waving at. A green ovoid had erupted from the earth, was growing and spreading its prickly, fleshy leaves. Four buds sprouted from its base, climbed skyward on slender stalks and burst open into colorful blossoms. Mature tendrils crept upon the ground.

"There's more of 'em!" Henderson yelled. All through the devastation, new shoots grew at unnatural speed, filling the void left by their obliterated predecessors.

"Holy shit," Johnson whispered. In a louder voice, he said, "We've got to get out of here. Fast."

"The bank's too far," Andrews said. He pointed to one of the rock "islands," a large boulder roughly a hundred feet away. "That's closer."

Johnson nodded curtly and slung Makepeace over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Andrews and Henderson laid down fire to clear a path through the carnivorous vegetation.

Henderson took point, Andrews rear guard, keeping Johnson and Makepeace in the middle where they could be somewhat protected. The group slowly made its way to the rocky haven, beleaguered on all sides by hostile alien life, Andrews and Henderson's rifles firing almost constantly. Clouds of spent gunpowder gasses hung thick in the air.

Johnson kept pace between his teammates, unable to help, burdened as he was by an extra one hundred eighty odd pounds of Marine colonel cum dead weight plus assorted gear. He felt Makepeace's head and arm thumping lightly on his rucksack, felt warm liquid dripping onto his stomach and thigh and soaking into his clothes. Sixty feet to go.

He cried aloud as something wrapped around his calf. He managed to twist sideways just as he fell so he didn't land on top of Makepeace, then he was being dragged backwards. A burst of automatic gunfire thundered close to his ear and the pull on his leg was gone. Clenching his jaw to keep from screaming, he staggered to his feet, hauled Makepeace over his shoulders once more, and gave an unconvincing thumbs-up to his teammates. The group moved on. Forty feet left.

Andrews shouted a warning. The plants were growing back faster than before. Gunfire to the rear, to the side. Thirty-five feet.

Henderson swept a wide arc before him of gunfire that ceased abruptly. He cursed, dropped the empty magazine and slapped a new one into his rifle. More gunfire. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

Something sharp jabbed Johnson's blood-soaked flank. An agonized groan sounded from the vicinity of his rucksack. He couldn't think about it now. Five feet.

And then they were at the boulder. Henderson used the remaining ammo in his magazine to clear a semicircle at its base, then shouldered his rifle and scrambled up the side. The remaining flowers beat against the stone as though enraged.

With Andrews providing cover against any eleventh hour attacks, Johnson eased Makepeace from his shoulders and propped him up against the boulder. Makepeace hissed sharply. His eyes were open but glassy, his face contorted with pain. Johnson muttered a quick apology as he lifted his CO to the waiting Henderson, who grasped him under the armpits and hoisted him the rest of the way up.

"Boss's clear, let's go!" Johnson shouted to Andrews, then clambered up to safety. Andrews hastily slung his rifle and bolted up after him. At the top, both men stood panting, their ears ringing in the sudden silence. They looked out over the lethal flowers they had just escaped. New plants were already budding at the foot of the boulder.

"Shit," was all Johnson said.

"Man, I never thought I'd need Roundup on a mission," Andrews bemoaned.

Johnson snorted and turned to check on Makepeace. Henderson had already stripped off Makepeace's pack and belt. He found a relatively flat spot and laid the colonel out on it to check him over. Johnson knelt down beside them. "How is he?" he asked worriedly.

Henderson had the fingers of one hand pressed to their CO's bruised throat. His other arm was raised so he could look at his watch. Without taking his eyes from the ticking second hand, he replied tersely, "Not real healthy, Lieutenant."

Johnson could see that much for himself. To his eye, Makepeace was a mess. Below the left knee, his pant leg was torn and drenched with blood. Bruises and marks like rope burns were vivid on his neck and clenched fingers. His eyes were closed again, his face sweat-sheened and pale as any ghost's; not even the ruddy light from 2YZ-149's dying sun could disguise that pallor. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. "Don' talk about me like I'm not here," he demanded, his voice rasping painfully.

"Then don't play dead, sir," Henderson rejoined. He wadded up a survival blanket and placed it under Makepeace's head, then pulled his knife and cut the bloody pant leg away. Johnson winced at the damage revealed.

Makepeace's boot was caked with blood, and his lower leg was covered with gouges and lacerations. The bone was obviously broken, with white, jagged edges poking out through the ruined flesh. That must have been what was jabbing him earlier, Johnson realized, when he was carrying Makepeace.

When he caught the expressions on their faces, Makepeace asked with a little cough, "That bad?" Before anyone could stop him, he levered himself up to see his leg. After one look, he closed his watery, bloodshot eyes and moaned, "Oh, God," as he dropped his head back onto the makeshift pillow.

"Please, sir," Henderson entreated, "just try to lie still. We'll take care of your leg. It'll be okay."

"Sure."

Henderson ignored the disbelief in his CO's tone and carefully examined the injured leg. "Doesn't look like the artery was damaged, thank God. I think the bleeding's slowing down, but we'd better not take any chances." He grabbed Johnson's hand and held it against an undamaged spot above the break. "Press here, sir. Hard."

Johnson nodded and pressed, hard like he'd been told, trying not to hear Makepeace's not-quite-repressed gasp of pain, while Henderson rummaged in the first aid kit. Taking great care not to disturb the exposed bone, the corporal efficiently covered the ugly wound with a sterile dressing and taped it down, then bandaged the rest of the leg. "I think the ankle's broken, too. The boot protected it, so there's no bleeding there. We'll have to splint the whole shebang, though."

"Can't wait," Makepeace grated out through clenched teeth.

"Don't worry, sir, you won't feel a thing," Henderson said in falsely light tone. "Or if you do, at least you won't care. Morphine is God's own gift," he added as he started to prep a morphine Syrette.

"No." Bruised fingers closed around Henderson's wrist.

"Sir, you're really gonna need this—"

Makepeace shook his head. "I can't afford to be doped up."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I might need to defend myself while I wait for you guys to get help."

"We're not leaving you here," Johnson said. "Soon as you're splinted up, we'll—"

"Be realistic. You guys'll have to move fast if you're going to get through those fucking plants. We'll all die if you try to drag my sorry carcass along." He paused and swallowed painfully, trying to wet his traumatized vocal cords enough to finish. "You'll have to leave me for now, and come back with help."

"Leave you?" Henderson sounded dumbfounded. Johnson and Andrews exchanged dispirited looks—the problem had occurred to both of them, but, not wanting to face reality just yet, they had resolutely pushed the idea to the backs of their minds. Each had been certain that, given a little time, someone would think of some way to salvage the situation. Leave it to Makepeace to state the unpalatable facts so bluntly.

Makepeace managed a humorless grin. "It should be safe enough. The plants are stuck down there. Just leave me enough ammo to hold off any other surprises this place might have." The last was delivered in a whisper, his voice having given out.

While Johnson acknowledged that they wouldn't be able to get Makepeace through the plants, the idea of leaving him, alone and injured, to fend for himself was patently ridiculous. Surely he had to realize that, no matter how addled he might be from pain and blood loss just now. Johnson directed a forbidding scowl at his damn-fool of a CO. "We'll talk about this later," he growled, forestalling further absurdities from all and sundry. He turned his glare onto Henderson. "Let's get that leg splinted."

* * *

While dismantling a rucksack, Henderson demanded that his teammates hand over their belts. Given the lack of more sophisticated medical supplies, he had decided to use part of the ruck's support framework to splint Makepeace's leg. As an extra precaution, he would then bind the colonel's legs together, trusting to field manuals that claimed the good leg would keep the injured one immobile. It was an unpleasant procedure made no easier by Makepeace's continued refusal of the morphine.

Andrews and Johnson held Makepeace still while Henderson worked. Even though the corporal wasn't actually setting the leg, just splinting it in place, Makepeace was white-faced and trembling during the operation, clenching his fists and biting his lips to keep from screaming. Johnson almost suggested holding him down and giving him the shot anyway, but the idea was distasteful and unfortunately, Makepeace had a point. There was no way they could carry him through almost a third of a mile of killer vegetables. However, Johnson wasn't about to leave him alone, either.

When the job was complete, Makepeace's left leg was splinted with two supports from the pack's framework, and tied to his right above and below the knees, and just above the ankles. A blanket had been cut in half, folded, and secured between his legs and the splints as padding. As a final touch, Henderson had tied his feet together across the instep with a strip of cloth cut from Makepeace's pant leg to keep them from moving. In an attempt to prevent shock, or at least keep it to a minimum, he elevated the colonel's legs by scooting a pack under them.

After checking the bandages for new bleeding, and the pulse points in Makepeace's injured leg to make sure the circulation was still good, Henderson leaned back on his haunches and sighed, "A textbook battlefield splint job, if I do say so myself."

"Don't break your arm pattin' yourself on the back," Makepeace gasped out irritably.

"No, sir."

Makepeace took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, spending a few minutes to catch his breath and regain his composure. The others took the opportunity to inspect their own injuries, which thankfully were relatively minor. Everyone had rope burns from the vines and a few bruises, but their clothing had protected them from more serious damage, and none of them had had a close encounter with an over-enthusiastic plant gullet.

Henderson had gotten off the lightest, with no injuries of any note. Andrews, in spite of having been the victim of a three-way tug-of-war between competing artichokes, was also relatively uninjured. His boots had protected his ankles, and his worst injury was a strained wrist. Henderson wrapped it in an Ace bandage, and Andrews pronounced it "fine."

To his dismay, Johnson discovered he had a slight limp, no doubt caused when a vine had yanked him off his feet while he was carrying Makepeace. Adrenaline had masked the pain until now.

"Gimp Number Two," Andrews dubbed him. "You officers are fragile."

"Shut up, Mike." Johnson immediately regretted snapping. They were all edgy; besides, smart-ass comments were just Andrews' way of blowing off steam. Johnson tested his leg. The knee complained, but he didn't think it would slow him down too much. A couple of aspirin and he wouldn't even notice it. He hoped.

"We need to powwow," Makepeace said, his voice a harsh croak.

"We do," Johnson agreed and sat cross-legged beside him.

"I think we've got a pretty good idea what happened to SG-7."

"I'd say that's a fair assessment."

"I don't get it," Andrews said as he dropped down next to Johnson. "Why'd those plants wait until we were in the middle of 'em to attack? Why not attack us sooner?"

"Better hunting strategy," Johnson speculated. "It's easier to catch prey that's surrounded."

"That doesn't make any sense. They're plants. They can't just get up and move. How do the ones on the outside get to eat?"

"Who cares?" Makepeace said, almost angrily. "It's enough that they're deadly. All that matters now is survival. Somehow, you've got to get through them to the other side. You'll have to leave me here and go for help. You'll never make it with me along," he added firmly.

"You're right, sir," Johnson said bluntly, forestalling the argument and determined to make Makepeace see reason, "we can't carry you across and survive. We'd all end up as plant chow. But we can't leave you here alone, either."

"We can't wait for the SGC to declare us overdue," Henderson said. "We've got nine hours to go before they do that, and if they give us eight hours like they did SG-7, they won't send out a rescue party for..." he paused slightly, doing the math, "...at least seventeen hours. Colonel, your leg can't wait that long."

Andrews said, "It'll take about five hours to get help." He ticked the numbers off on his fingers, "Almost an hour to get across that field and out of the valley. A forty minute hike through the desert, and time to get a rescue team pulled together and kitted up, then back here."

"Then the sooner you leave, the better," Makepeace said impatiently.

"Very true, sir," Johnson said, adding decisively, "Andrews and Henderson will head back to the Stargate. I'll stay here with you."

Andrews nodded approvingly. "Works for me."

"Negative." Makepeace glowered at his team. His eyes were so bloodshot and watery that the blue irises seemed laser bright. "You'll need all available firepower if you expect to get through those plants."

Reining in his irritation, Johnson told him with exaggerated patience, "You're not thinking clearly, sir. Must be your injuries, or shock or something. Obviously, you're in no condition to be making decisions or giving orders."

"Like hell."

"It doesn't matter, anyway, sir. My knee's hurt. I can walk on it, but I've got a limp, and I can't risk it going out completely on me out in the middle of all that." Johnson waved his arm at the expanses of flowers. "That would get us all killed just as quick as if we were trying to carry you along with us."

It was a good excuse, and one that Makepeace, ever the realist, wouldn't argue with. It was also, Johnson mused unhappily as his knee gave another little twinge, quite possibly true.

"You're sure you can't make it?" Makepeace asked grudgingly, like he thought Johnson was lying to him.

"No, but it's not a good risk to be taking."

"Dammit." Makepeace was clearly not a happy colonel. His attitude had slumped, the fight going out of him.

"This is the best chance we've got."

Makepeace nodded and closed his eyes with a defeated sigh. He wanted all his men to escape this death trap. Normally, Johnson would have considered Makepeace's attitude commendable, but it was a damned nuisance right now. At least he'd finally been made to see reason. Not that Makepeace's opinion would have held any water. Johnson was fully prepared to do what was necessary, but it was always better to have the CO's agreement. It would make life a great deal easier later on.

"How are we gonna get through?" Henderson asked, concerned with the logistics now that Makepeace had acquiesced to reality. "Bullets alone aren't gonna do it. We barely made it to this rock."

"We can use grenades," Andrews said. "Blast a path right through the motherfuckers. In my experience, there aren't very many problems that can't be solved with high explosives."

"That should do the trick." Henderson nodded vigorously. "Then we can drill any stragglers. If we're fast, the plants probably won't grow back quick enough to give us too much grief."

Johnson said, "I'll clear as much of the path as possible. You two save your grenades in case you need them down there in that mess. I also want you to take half of our extra magazines. The colonel and I shouldn't need 'em, and besides, we've only got one rifle between us." Makepeace's had been lost somewhere out in the flowers, either when that artichoke had nearly eaten him, or during the mad dash to the boulder. "Shouldn't have too much to worry about out here. Those things," Johnson gestured out at the plants, "should keep trouble away."

Almost in contradiction to his words, there was movement out on the riverbank. Johnson frowned. "What the hell?" He pulled out his binoculars and looked through them at the far shore. Andrews and Henderson followed suit to have their own look.

A strange, dun-colored creature stood on the riverbank, just out of reach of the flowers. The thing was headless, but had an array of tentacles clustered where its neck should be. It had six barbed and claw-tipped legs, with joints that bent in all the wrong ways yet moved with a peculiarly graceful fluidity. A gaping, tooth-encrusted mouth yawned wide in the center of its barrel chest. It paced back and forth along the flowers' edge, tentacles waving, hissing and coughing in anger or frustration.

Whatever it was, it was carnivorous, for sure. Might even be the same animal they'd heard yowling earlier, while they were tracking SG-7 through the desert. As Johnson watched, it stretched out its tentacles as though tasting the air. The mass of feelers rippled rhythmically, then aimed themselves in the direction of SG-3's island refuge. Johnson cursed. Could that thing get across the plants? He cocked his rifle, just in case. To his side, he heard Henderson and Andrews follow his example.

"What is it?" Makepeace asked, unable to get up and look for himself.

"Company, sir," Johnson said tersely. "Looks like a desert predator."

"A predator? Looks more like a nightmare to me," Andrews added.

Keeping its tentacles focused in SG-3's direction, the bizarre animal let out a blood-curdling shriek and crouched down low. Its body tensed, making tiny back-and-forth movements like a stalking cat preparing to pounce. Suddenly, it sprang into the air, out toward their boulder. It was an amazing leap, carrying the creature almost fifty feet, far enough to bring it to a small pile of rocks and keep it out of the plants' reach.

"Shit," Johnson muttered. "It's going to try to hop across the rocks."

"Must be pretty damn hungry." Andrews put his rifle to his shoulder, expertly lining up the shot. "It gets too close, and I'll wax it."

"Be sure you get it good. Who knows where its brain or heart is?"

Henderson said, "Who knows if it's even got either of those things? Maybe it's got some weird distributed system, so that damage to one area won't incapacitate it."

"You're a regular Pollyanna, aren't you?" Johnson said snidely.

Leaping again, the tentacled beast cleared seventy feet to the safety of a large boulder.

"Jesus, how far can that thing jump?" Henderson wondered.

"Probably not far enough," said Andrews, still aiming his rifle. "The rocks get pretty far apart this deep into the flowers. Nearest is a good two hundred feet."

The predator poised on its boulder, focused in their direction, undeterred by the distances involved. The next stepping stone on its list was over a hundred feet away. It tensed, then sprang.

And came up short by a mere ten feet.

The flowery patch of ground it landed on exploded with writhing vines. Lightning fast tentacles snared the animal and wrapped around it, holding it in place. The predator screamed and fought, its own feelers jerking and twirling, searching for an escape route. There was none. The relentless vines were everywhere, twining about their prey, pulling it this way and that. One artichoke gained ascendancy over the others and managed to get a clawed, thrashing limb into its mouth. Agonized screeches rent the air as the prickly leaves clamped down and swallowed more of the creature's leg. After five or six swallows, the plant had managed to engulf half of its howling victim. It contracted tightly, crushing its still-living meal within its body. The shrieks became pitiable shrill whines, then ceased altogether. A few more swallows and the unfortunate animal was gone.

The flowers were quiet once more, waving innocently in the breeze.

"Holy shit," Henderson whispered hoarsely. "That could have been us."

Andrews' Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he lowered his rifle.

The hush was broken when Makepeace asked, "What happened?"

"The plants ate it," Johnson said, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene of such terrifying carnage. "We just got a pretty graphic demo of what almost happened to us." What almost happened to you, he thought, but didn't voice the words.

"Shit, that was fast," Andrews said. "I ain't never seen nothing like it."

Finally, Johnson lowered his binoculars and turned to his teammates. "Well, now we know what we're up against."

"Yeah." Andrews readied his gear. "A real fuckin' gauntlet. You be sure to blow 'em up real good, Lieutenant, or me and Henderson'll be lunch for sure."

"Hope there aren't any more of those predator things hanging around," Henderson said, checking his rifle and making sure his extra magazines were easily accessible.

"We'll worry about them after we get past the killer plants."

Johnson forced the images of the alien predator's grisly death from his mind, the same ugly death that might claim his two teammates, that had almost claimed his CO. "All right, here's what we'll do. I'll use high explosive rounds to blast out a path as far as I can." He thoughtfully tapped the M203 grenade launcher mounted on his rifle. The weapon had a maximum range of four hundred meters, but accuracy went down after three hundred fifty. It was close to a third of a mile to the riverbank—a little over five hundred meters. "I won't be able to get you all the way across," he warned them.

"You won't have to," Andrews said, eyeballing the route and drawing the same conclusions as Johnson. "Just give us a head start. Henderson and I can blow the last hundred or so ourselves."

"Okay." Johnson grimaced and unloaded more bad news, "I also don't want to set off any explosions too close to our little island sanctuary, here. There's too much chance of flying debris nailing us if I aim too close, so I'm gonna put the first round about twenty to thirty meters out. You two'll have to use your rifles to cut your own way through the plants to the cleared path. That gonna be a problem?"

Of course it was. Johnson knew that, and so did Henderson and Andrews, but no one demurred. None of them wanted a grenade going off in their faces, and they all knew that twenty meters was really pushing the safety margin. Henderson said simply, "Sounds like a plan." He looked remarkably calm.

Andrews glanced back to where Makepeace lay, listening in on their planning but not interrupting. Johnson followed his gaze and chewed his lower lip.

"You sure you two will be okay?" Andrews quietly asked Johnson.

Good question. Makepeace looked awful, lying there with his legs bound together, bloody bandages swathing his left leg, hiding the compound fracture. Would they be okay? Johnson really didn't know, but in spite of his own misgivings, he managed a small laugh. "For five hours? We'll be fine."

Andrews didn't look convinced, but didn't push the issue, either. Makepeace wasn't the only realist in SG-3. He nodded briskly. "Then let's get to it. The sooner we go, the sooner we'll be back."

"Right. Get in position." Johnson waited until Andrews and Henderson had readied their rifles and positioned themselves at the edge of the boulder. He loaded a 40-millimeter HE grenade into his M203 and cocked the weapon. "Here goes." He took aim and fired the grenade launcher. Twenty meters away, the explosion tore up the landscape, shredding the plants within a five-meter radius and damaging those further out. Rock chips, dirt, and artichoke pieces flew through the air and rained down on the surrounding countryside, some of the detritus coming a little too close for comfort. Johnson knew he should aim a bit farther out, but he wanted to give Henderson and Andrews the best chance he could.

He loaded another round and fired it. Then another. And another.

Johnson cleared a rough trail a little over three hundred and fifty meters long, then said, "Go."

Andrews and Henderson jumped down into the killer plants at the base of the boulder, ready to shoot anything that so much as twitched at them. A few vines stirred, but made no threatening action. In fact, the plants looked a little limp. Maybe, Andrews thought hopefully, the recent devastation had somehow affected them.

Andrews and Henderson moved out toward the blasted area. They hadn't traveled more than ten feet when the artichokes decided to come back to life. Johnson's shouted warning wasn't necessary as Andrews, in the lead, was already firing to the front and left, Henderson taking care of the rear and right flank.

It was a nightmarish twenty meters. The plants might be slightly sluggish, but they made up for it in aggression and numbers. The gunfire was almost continuous. There were one or two close calls, but finally the two Marines made it to the grenade-bombarded pathway.

Plant parts and mush littered the area. Some artichokes were still reasonably intact, but most of those had been torn from the earth and were lying limply on their sides. Andrews could see what had previously been hidden: that each plant was rooted in the ground by a long, thick stalk, that was almost the same diameter as the plant body itself. Almost like a neck, Andrews mused, and felt a weird shiver race through him.

Although he hadn't really expected otherwise, still he was somewhat dismayed to see that new shoots were already starting to appear. Small green buds popped up from the shattered earth and grew even as he watched. Still, getting through the immature plants should be easier than surviving their adult brethren, assuming he and Henderson moved fast enough.

"Hurry!" he yelled. "Before they get too big!"

Henderson didn't need to be told twice; he was right on Andrews' heels. The duo bolted through the fledgling sprouts, taking care not to step in any potholes and trying to watch out for stray tentacles from the occasional mature artichoke that had survived the bombardment. An unseen tentacle whipped out and snagged Henderson's leg. He went down with a shout.

"Gawdammit!" Andrews ventilated the plant then yanked Henderson to his feet.

The two Marines slowed to a jog, watching more carefully for attacking vines, shooting at any and all movement. Both had the same thoughts running through their heads: They couldn't fail, they couldn't leave the colonel and the lieutenant to die...

Both were on high alert now, and there were no more mishaps. Artichokes were springing up right and left, and those blocking the way were splattered just as quickly as they appeared. As Andrews nailed another aggressive plant, he wondered how many more of the things they'd have to fight through. Surely they were almost to the end? And then he saw the dense clusters of flowers up ahead. They had reached the end of Johnson's trail.

"Time to blow the rest of the fuckers up," he said to Henderson. "Cover me."

Without waiting for any acknowledgment, Andrews loaded a round into his grenade launcher, took aim at the colorful blooms and fired. The explosion went off on impact twenty meters forward of his position, destroying plants and filling the air with ugly smoke. Again and again he lobbed grenades, trying to clear a decent path through the artichokes, but it wasn't easy. Before, up on the boulder, looking down on the flowers, they had been able to see progress, see the destruction of vegetation and where to place the next grenade. Down in the trenches, eye level with the man-eating monsters, it was another matter entirely.

Only a hundred and fifty meters, he told himself. That's all. He heard Henderson fire off a few bursts, hoped the corporal could keep the vines off him until the way was cleared. He loosed two more grenades. When the smoke thinned, the riverbank became visible.

"You did it," Henderson gasped. "It's clear."

"Jesus. Just barely." Andrews frowned at the bombed-out path. It wasn't nearly as good a job as Johnson had done, but it was the best he could manage with no real visibility. He raised his rifle to destroy the remaining plants when Henderson grabbed his sleeve.

"Do you see that?"

Andrews saw it, all right. Straight ahead, less than forty meters from him, the explosions had gouged away some of the earth. An enormous, glistening green mass, newly revealed, was pulsating irregularly. Its surface was covered with protrusions, some the long-necked artichokes, some mere nodules that rapidly sprouted into buds.

"Jesus Christ, what is it?" Henderson asked.

"It's the monster," Andrews said. No wonder the "plants" had waited until SG-3 was in the midst of them to attack. No wonder the ones on the outer edges had passively let the Marines pass by, rather than try for their own lunch. They were probably all part of the same creature.

"Fuck this," he hissed and started firing, eradicating artichokes in his path. "Let's move!"

The two men moved forward, gunning down everything that dared to get in their way, and covered the distance as rapidly as harried prudence would allow. They were forced to slow their pace to cut a route that permitted them to bypass the monstrous, alien body. At close range, it was repulsive; shiny, slimy, covered with dirt and rocks, with gouges from the explosions that oozed a yellowish goo that looked like pus. Even though it was injured, still it sprouted new buds that grew with frightening speed.

Andrews was sorely tempted to chuck a grenade right into the middle of that grotesque nightmare, although what good that would do he didn't know. It was obviously part of some unimaginably huge network spread out underground. Blowing this piece into mush wouldn't do anyone any good, so instead he concentrated on just getting himself and Henderson to the riverbank. Once past the thing, both men again picked up speed, firing and moving forward.

The riverbank was closer. Closer. Andrews cut loose a last burst of gunfire, motioned for Henderson to move ahead of him. Then Henderson was climbing onto the rocky riverbank. He stood, providing cover fire while Andrews scrambled up after him.

Panting hard, Andrews turned, looking out over the endless flowers, out past the monster's true form revealed, out toward the boulder island where his two teammates were still trapped. It rankled, leaving them behind like that, but he had to admit that the colonel had been dead right; they'd never have gotten across if they'd hauled him along. They had barely made it as it was. But they'd done it; they'd gotten through. In victory, he waved both arms over his head, an unmistakable announcement to his stranded comrades that he and Henderson had survived.

Behind him, he heard Henderson speak into his radio, his voice betraying only the slightest of quavers, "Lieutenant, we made it. We're on our way. You two hang tight."

Johnson's gruff tones crackled back, "I read you. Good luck."

Their teammates knew they were all right. Now they could leave with a reasonably clear conscience, although the feeling that they were abandoning Makepeace and Johnson lingered in the back of Andrews' mind. The knowledge of the loathsome malignancy lurking just beneath the surface certainly didn't help assuage the guilt. Andrews set his jaw and said brusquely, "Great. Now, let's haul ass."

The two Marines started to climb.

* * *

"They made it." Johnson disengaged his radio with fingers that almost trembled. He hadn't needed the verbal confirmation; he'd been glued to his binoculars the whole time, and nearly fainted with relief at seeing Andrews and Henderson climb up onto that riverbank. He'd practically been biting his nails while they made their way through the killer flowers. Terrifying images of his two teammates dismembered and devoured right before his eyes had paraded through his head as he helplessly watched their slow progress. But they made it.

"Thank God," Makepeace rasped. The same heartfelt relief and release from terror that Johnson felt was evident in the colonel's voice.

Johnson didn't lower the binoculars until he saw Andrews and Henderson climb up the valley's rocky wall and disappear over its edge. "Godspeed, you two assholes," he murmured. "Hurry back." He returned to Makepeace and sat down beside him. "They're on their way. Now all we have to do is wait."

Makepeace took a deep breath, coughed it out when his damaged throat protested. "You can give me that shot now," he sighed.

"And here I figured you were gonna just tough it out," Johnson teased gently.

"Not me."

Johnson smiled to himself. Sometimes Makepeace was so transparent. Now that he knew his two men were safe, he would finally allow himself to be cooperative about painkillers. Johnson finished prepping the Syrette that Henderson had set aside earlier, and injected Makepeace in the leg. Almost immediately, Makepeace's pinched features started to relax. His eyes slid shut. Johnson sat with him while the morphine worked its merciful magic.

Makepeace licked his cracked lips. Without a word, Johnson opened his canteen and gave the colonel a drink. Makepeace took a few sips and whispered, "Thanks."

Five hours, Johnson thought, staring at his CO's wan face. Not so long. Better than waiting seventeen hours by far, but it still seemed like an eternity. He glanced out over the river of deadly flowers. Other than that bizarre predator, some bugs and a few birds gliding overhead, he hadn't seen any animal life, and those were all gone now. It seemed so alien, so quiet, after the thunder of explosions and gunfire. A few normal animal sounds would have been comforting, but there was only a brutal silence. Maybe the creatures had been scared off by the ruckus, maybe the plants had just eaten them all when he wasn't looking. Either way, there was nothing around to make any noise, no signs or sounds of normal life, just the breeze wafting smoke and the flowers' perfume. Suddenly, the silence became stifling, and Johnson felt very alone.

"It's awfully quiet," he said, for no better reason than to break the stillness.

Makepeace's watery blue eyes opened and fixed vaguely on him. "So make some noise," he suggested. "Won't bother me."

No, Johnson thought wryly, observing his CO's unfocused expression, it probably won't. Good stuff, that morphine.

Makepeace continued lightly, "You could sing camp songs or something."

"You mean like Kumbaya?"

"Why not? Haven't heard that one in a long time."

Kumbaya. Jesus. Johnson hadn't sung that in years, not since his Boy Scout days. The mere idea made him want to giggle. Or maybe it was just repressed hysteria seeking an outlet.

"I wouldn't mind a little noise, either," Makepeace said softly.

The incipient mirth died away. Johnson stared at Makepeace, aware that the colonel was probably suppressing as much fear as he was. Hell, probably more, considering his injuries. Air and exposed bone were a bad, bad combination. The high possibility of infection, even gangrene—Makepeace could lose his leg if help didn't come soon enough. He might die...

Despite the heat, a small shiver ran up Johnson's spine. Almost desperately, he cast about in his mind for a distraction. Not Kumbaya. He drew the line at that. An odd little piece of trivia wriggled its way to the surface of his brain. He couldn't, could he?

What the hell.

Straight-faced, Johnson sang out at the top of his lungs, "Greeeeeeen Acres is the place to be! Farm livin' is the life for me..."

Makepeace started to chuckle. Johnson permitted himself a small smile and continued, "Land spreadin' out so far and wide. Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside!"

* * *

For probably the hundredth time since his wait in purgatory had begun, Johnson raised his binoculars and scanned beyond the artichoke field for any sign of rescue. As usual, there was nothing, and there would probably be nothing for some time yet. He shifted his seat next to Makepeace and again ran through the calculations in his head—roughly an hour and a half back to the Stargate, the better part of an hour to explain the situation and pull together a rescue party with appropriate gear, another hour and a half for them to get back here. Best case, four and a half to five hours, or maybe four if they were quick and everything went extremely smoothly. Johnson didn't even want to think about the worst case. He sighed and looked down at his unconscious CO.

Sometime between the theme songs from Speed Racer and Gilligan's Island—a tune Johnson considered ironically appropriate to their current situation, marooned as they were on an island of rock like fucking castaways—Colonel Makepeace had finally succumbed to the combined effects of the morphine, pain, exhaustion, and blood loss. He'd been dead to the world ever since. Johnson frowned and gently rested the back of his hand against the colonel's forehead. The skin was cool, too cool, moist and clammy to the touch. Makepeace was so pale that he had taken on a sickly greenish-gray color, his breathing ragged and shallow. Johnson moved his hand to the colonel's throat, felt the thready pulse, and cursed quietly.

Shock had set in early, well before Makepeace had actually lost consciousness, and Johnson could do nothing but watch it progress. The usual first aid precautions had only delayed the inevitable. If help didn't come pretty soon... Johnson shook off the morbid, half-formed thought. They'd come in time. They would.

A high-pitched shriek off to his left made him jerk his head around. He lifted the binoculars and scanned the field. A rapid fluttering caught his gaze. A little while after the explosions and gunfire had ceased, the flying creatures had gradually returned. It looked like this one had ventured too low and been snagged by an artichoke. Only one wing was visible outside the plant's mouth, and it was flapping as furiously as any hummingbird's. Then the artichoke contracted, a sudden, swift motion. The wing stopped moving. The artichoke stretched and contracted again, and the wing vanished from sight.

Johnson set the binoculars down with a sigh. The tentacles on those artichokes were quick, he had to give them that. Before today, he'd never have believed a plant could move so fast. Insects lured by the colorful, sweet-scented flowers were snatched and swallowed in the wink of an eye; larger creatures took somewhat longer, depending upon their size, but all were dispatched with remarkable efficiency. None ever escaped.

"Jesus," Johnson muttered, rubbing his eyes. The field had completely repaired itself from the damage SG-3 had inflicted upon it. New plants had sprung up and filled the blasted areas, and Johnson could no longer tell where the grenades had exploded. He shook his head. There was no doubt at all in his mind as to SG-7's fate. Of all the God-awful ways to die, getting eaten alive by carnivorous artichokes had to take the cake. He always knew there had to be a good reason he didn't like artichokes, but he never imagined that they were kissing cousins to evil, alien plant monsters. He swore he'd never even so much as look as another artichoke for as long as he lived.

It might just be his imagination, but Johnson thought that maybe the ungodly heat was abating a little. The sun was somewhat lower in the direction that he had arbitrarily designated as "west." Idly wondering if things would get better or worse when night fell, he wiped his sleeve across his brow and took a swig of water from his canteen, then checked on Makepeace again. There was no improvement, but the colonel didn't seem to be any worse, either. That had to count for something. Right?

Where the hell were Henderson and Andrews? What if they hadn't made it back to the Stargate? Maybe they'd run into more of those weird predators. Johnson wanted to smack himself for thinking about that, but couldn't stop his mind from fabricating all kinds of horrors. He forcibly reminded himself that his two teammates were armed to the teeth. They could handle anything this planet could throw at them. Well, he temporized, anything but artichokes.

Wait. Was that movement on the valley's craggy wall? Almost afraid to hope, Johnson again raised the binoculars to his face, then jumped to his feet with a whoop. A sharp pain lanced through his knee, reminding him of his own injury, but even that couldn't distract him. Eleven human figures, clad in the familiar beige and grey of desert camouflage, were climbing down the rocks to the dry riverbed's shore. The cavalry had arrived.

Johnson glanced down at Makepeace. "Help's coming, sir. Just hang in there." Makepeace gave no sign that the words had registered, even on a subconscious level. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid.

Undismayed, Johnson turned his attention back to the rescue party. By now, they were all down on the riverbank and unlimbering their gear. They had a quick conference, then Johnson's radio crackled to life, the words sweet music, "Johnson, do you read me? Lieutenant, do you read? Over."

That was Colonel O'Neill's voice. Johnson keyed his mike. "That's an affirmative, sir. Glad to hear your voice."

"And I'm glad to hear yours. How ya doing? How's Makepeace?"

"I'm fine, sir. The colonel's unconscious, but he's still alive."

"Good. We'll see you in a bit. Hang tight." The connection was cut.

Three of O'Neill's team stepped to the edge of the riverbank and aimed their weapons. Great columns of fire spewed out into the flowers.

Flamethrowers! Yeah, flamethrowers would do the trick, all right. Johnson watched with vindictive delight as the plants wilted back from the flames, shriveled and blackened.

The first three rescuers advanced into the burned-out area. The rest of the party followed them in orderly formation, armed with fire to keep the deadly vines at bay. Slowly, burning everything in their path, the group made its way through the flowers.

As they approached, Johnson was able to identify individual members of the team. He already knew Colonel O'Neill was with them, and wasn't surprised to see him in the lead, flanked by Major Murdock and Lieutenant Clark of SG-4, with Andrews and Henderson a little behind, carrying a stretcher between them. Johnson shook his head at that. Neither of them should have come back, both had minor injuries, but who would have dared to tell them no?

Johnson picked out the other members of SG-1 and SG-4. He had never been so pleased to see anyone in his life. Hell, he was even glad to see that turncoat Jaffa. And there was Sergeant Ramirez, and Corporal Bannon, and Captain Carter, and— Christ Almighty! Daniel Jackson with a flamethrower! Whose good idea was that?

Johnson adjusted the focus on the binoculars, and had to admit that the archeologist seemed to be handling the weapon just fine. More than fine, in fact. Jackson's face wore a look bordering on glee as he burned the plants around him. Johnson grinned broadly at the sight. Who'd ever have guessed that the inestimable Doctor Jackson was a closet firebug?

The last member of the group was Sergeant Jeff Reese, a Pararescueman, one of the Air Force's legendary combat medics. Equally at home jumping out of airplanes, crawling over mudslides, or dangling from a helicopter over stormy seas, not to mention doing his job while under enemy fire, Reese had taken to hurtling through the Stargate with enviable aplomb. There were never very many PJs active, so eyebrows had been raised when one was assigned to the SGC, but Reese had seen more than enough action to justify his position. In fact, there were rumors that General Hammond was trying to snag one or two more.

With judicious use of the flamethrowers, the rescue party made its way to the boulder with nary a mishap. Johnson had been hoping the plants might not grow back if they were burned and cauterized, but he was disappointed in that wish. Fresh green buds already littered the charred ground in the SG teams' wake.

At last they stood at the base of the boulder. Johnson called, "Man, am I glad to see you guys."

"Good to see you, too, Johnson. We'll be up in a sec." Colonel O'Neill waved encouragingly at him, then regarded the new shoots with serious disfavor. "Crap. I didn't think they'd be that fast."

Captain Carter added, "The rate of growth is unprecedented in anything we've ever seen before. The energy requirements must be—"

"A lot," O'Neill cut her off brusquely. He snapped out, "All right, everyone, stick to the plan. Keep the area clear, but keep enough fuel in reserve so we can make it out of here. Reese, let's make this fast."

As O'Neill clambered onto the rocky surface, Johnson moved to give him a hand up. The stretcher was passed up to the pair. They set it beside Makepeace while Reese climbed onto the boulder as well.

Reese immediately knelt at Makepeace's side and started checking him over, mumbling to himself as he worked. O'Neill took in Johnson's concerned expression and lightly touched his arm. "I hear you got yourself damaged, too."

"Just a twisted knee, sir. I hardly notice it."

"Uh, huh." O'Neill eyed the rusty brown splotches on the Marine lieutenant's BDUs.

"It's Colonel Makepeace's blood, sir," Johnson said hastily. "I had to carry him after he was hurt."

"Got it." O'Neill nodded in understanding. "About that knee. Will you be able to walk back on your own?"

"Damn straight, I will, sir."

O'Neill grinned. "Good, 'cause we only brought one stretcher. Your buddies said you weren't too bad off, but Reese was worried."

"When you're done vilifying my common sense, could you trouble yourself to be useful, sir?" Reese called.

"Whatever you need."

"We have to get this pack out of the way." Reese indicated the rucksack that Makepeace's legs rested on, then pulled a board out of the stretcher. "I want to splint his legs to this before we try to move him. Hold 'em steady for me."

O'Neill complied, as Reese shoved the rucksack aside and quickly slid the board into position. "Okay, sir," he said, also getting a grip on Makepeace's legs, "let's let them down, now, real easy."

That accomplished, Reese buckled the board securely to the splinted legs, carefully avoiding the worst of the injuries. Makepeace groaned slightly as the PJ tightened the straps. "All right, let's get him in the stretcher. Colonel, could you take his head? Lieutenant, support his waist. I've got his feet. On three. One, two, three—"

The three men lifted Makepeace into the stretcher with one smooth motion. In spite of their care not to jostle him too much, Makepeace jolted awake with a cry of pain.

"Take it easy, sir," Reese told him soothingly, as he efficiently secured the restraining straps. "We're getting you out of here." To Johnson, he asked quietly, "You gave him morphine? When was his last shot?"

O'Neill stayed seated beside Makepeace's head, wincing a little at the livid bruises that disfigured the man's neck. "Hiya, Makepeace, how ya doing?" O'Neill asked him cheerfully. "You look like shit, you know that?"

Makepeace blinked a few times at the face blocking his view of the sky. "O'Neill," he rasped in tones that bordered on disgust. "Figures."

"Aw, don't tell me you're not glad to see me. I thought you'd be thrilled."

"Fuck off."

"Now, that's no way to talk to your rescuer. Is this the thanks I get," O'Neill said, gesturing melodramatically, "for leading this valiant party through man-eating artichokes just to save your sorry ass? The least you could do is say thank you."

"Thank you. Now fuck off."

"You really stepped in it this time, Bob."

Makepeace fixed him with a baleful glare. "Didn't step in nothin'," he mumbled. "Got dragged."

"So your men told me. I still say you're a klutz." Noting the way Makepeace's hands clenched the sides of the stretcher, so hard the knuckles showed white, and the strained look on his sweat-sheened face, O'Neill chattered on in a lighthearted vein, "Man-eating, flowering artichokes. Whoever heard of such a thing? Gotta hand it to you, you can find some pretty bizarre trouble when you put your mind to it."

"Oh, just shaddup, will ya?"

"This one's gonna make SGC history. Even Daniel's never had his butt kicked by a flower."

The conversation, such as it was, could go nowhere but downhill from there. Before the mudslinging reached competitive Olympic levels, Reese interrupted, "Colonel Makepeace, I'd say it's time for another shot of morphine."

Makepeace grunted, "Hey, knock yourself out."

"Won't be Reese getting knocked out," O'Neill told him.

Reese opened a Syrette package and administered the injection. Makepeace's face relaxed, and his eyes started to drift shut.

O'Neill waggled his fingers at him. "Night, night."

Makepeace managed to crack one eye open. "O'Neill," he whispered, "I was glad to see you." Then he was gone in a morphine haze.

"Yeah, I know." O'Neill got to his feet and dusted himself off. "All right, let's get moving," he said to Reese and Johnson. "We ain't got all day."

* * *

Three days later, Johnson left General Hammond's office and wandered down the SGC's corridors with only the barest trace of a limp. The news, delivered in advance to SG-3 by the general, that SG-7 was to be declared KIA had hardly come as a surprise, given their own experiences on 2YZ-149.

The day after Colonel O'Neill had brought Colonel Makepeace and himself home, Major Castleman took several teams back to the planet. Utilizing flamethrowers and a high-powered accelerant, they were able to burn out large patches of vegetation, conduct a quick search, then move on to the next area before the killer artichokes could grow back and threaten them. They recovered enough gear in the riverbed to account for everyone on the missing team. No bodies, though.

Johnson sighed deeply; the way those plants ate, there really hadn't been a shot in hell of finding even partial bodies. To make it even worse, the shiny objects on the far side of the valley that had probably lured SG-7 to their fate had turned out to be a deposit of ordinary quartz crystals.

SG-3 had only survived the killer plants because they were better armed than SG-7 had been; that and a healthy dollop of luck. Johnson didn't delude himself. If their team hadn't been carrying their M203s and a full load of grenades, Henderson and Andrews would have bought it out in the flowers when they tried to go for help. Makepeace would probably have died of his wounds, and himself, well, he might have survived long enough for the SGC to send a rescue team, as long as he stayed put on that boulder. Maybe. The thought of how close he had come to being the sole survivor chilled him.

He decided he could spare a few minutes to visit Makepeace and went to the infirmary. Johnson knew General Hammond had already informed the colonel about SG-7, and figured Makepeace could probably stand a little company. He rounded a corner and ambled into the patients' ward.

Colonel Makepeace was presently the ward's only occupant. He was propped up in his bed with his left leg in a cast and suspended in traction. A hospital tray was arranged where he could get at it. He was unhappily regarding the only item the tray currently held: a bowl of lime Jell-O. Johnson didn't even try to prevent himself from grinning at the resigned look on his CO's face as he poked dolefully at the quivering cubes of neon green gelatin with his spoon.

"Hi, sir," Johnson said cheerfully. "That sure looks yummy."

Makepeace gave him a mock glare and pushed the tray aside. "You're welcome to it. I want some real food." His voice still rasped, although it sounded much better. The bruises on his neck and fingers still looked awful, though.

Johnson rubbed his own bruised wrist in unconscious sympathy. "Looks like real food to me."

"This is hospital food," Makepeace said with loathing. "I suppose you could call it real, if you were generous. I want a steak." The colonel's face took on a dreamy expression. "A huge, two pounder, so rare it's still mooing. And a baked potato loaded with sour cream and chives and bacon and cheddar cheese. Food I can actually chew."

Johnson snorted, wondering how Makepeace intended to swallow anything more substantial than Jell-O with his throat all mangled like that. "Gotta escape from the infirmary first, sir. So when is Doc Fraiser lettin' you out of here?"

"I dunno. She says she'll cut me loose when I can get around on crutches. I figure she's really just making sure I don't turn into a big ol' man-eating plant."

Johnson surreptitiously eyed the complicated arrangement of pulleys and cables that kept Makepeace's leg suspended, and privately thought there might be a more prosaic reason involved. However, he said mendaciously, "Possible alien contamination, sir. Be glad you're not in an isolation ward."

"Dear God," Makepeace groaned theatrically. "And here I thought this was the most boring place on the entire planet. That would be even worse." He heaved a deep breath. "I'm going out of my mind here, Johnson."

"Yeah, I figured. You'd think they could at least rig up a TV and VCR or something. I'd bring in my combo unit for you, but Security would never let it out again. At least, not in one piece."

Makepeace grinned at him. "That's okay. I won't ask you to sacrifice your TV." He regarded Johnson cautiously. "So, did Hammond give you the news?"

"About SG-7? Yes, sir, just a little while ago."

"You okay?"

Johnson blinked. "Yeah, pretty much. It was kind of depressing."

"Always is. Wasn't exactly a surprise, though."

Johnson smiled ruefully. "No, sir, it certainly wasn't. Made my peace with it out on that rock."

"Yeah, me, too."

"I'm just glad we made it out alive." Desiring a change of subject matter to something less strained, Johnson leaned in conspiratorially and said, "You should have seen the rescue team, sir. You'd have gotten a kick out of them."

Makepeace grimaced. "O'Neill's bunch, or Murdock's?"

"O'Neill's. You should have seen Doctor Jackson. They let him have a flamethrower."

"You're kidding me."

"No shit, sir. He was having a blast. I swear, sir, he's got arson in his blood."

"Good Lord." Makepeace shook his head. "It's always the quiet ones."

"Since when was Doctor Jackson ever quiet?" Johnson laughed aloud. "Well, I've gotta go now, sir. I'll just leave you to dwell on that terrifying image."

"Thanks a heap. Now I'll have nightmares about the SGC burning down around my ears."

Still chuckling, Johnson left the infirmary. As he entered the hallway, he ran into Colonel O'Neill and the firebug himself, Daniel Jackson. "Sir, Doctor Jackson," he nodded to them both.

Colonel O'Neill was carrying a plate reverently before him. Its bulky contents were hidden from view by a cloth napkin. "Hey, Johnson. How's your fearless leader?"

"He's doing fine, sir," Johnson said. "He's already griping about the food."

"Good." O'Neill grinned from ear to ear. "That's real good."

"He's kind of bored, too. Doesn't really like being cooped up."

"Well, I've got just the thing to cure his little case of ennui."

"I wish you'd tell me what that is, Jack." Looking irritated, Daniel gestured at the covered plate. "Doctor Fraiser'll kill you if you—"

"Oh, stop your worrying, Daniel. I told you, it's just a little something to cheer Makepeace up. It's the least I could do, after he told me he was glad to see me and all. You remember that, don't you, Johnson?"

"Yes, sir," Johnson confirmed hesitantly.

"You're a witness, you know. Keep that in mind. Anyhow, I thought this would put our working relationship back on track."

Daniel eyed O'Neill suspiciously but for once kept his mouth shut.

"That's very thoughtful of you, sir," Johnson said carefully.

"Yep, that's me. Mister Thoughtful." With that, O'Neill disappeared into the infirmary.

"What do you think he's really got?" Johnson asked worriedly.

Daniel said with a frown, "I'm not sure I want to know, but whatever it is, it can't be too awful. He knows Janet'll have his head if he riles Colonel Makepeace up too badly." He thought about that for a moment and conceded, "Maybe we should move out of the line of fire, just in case."

The two men had just taken a few steps away from the infirmary door when O'Neill's raised voice announced, "All right, all right, I'm leaving!" The colonel skidded out the door and ducked around to the side. An ovoid projectile shot through the doorway in a green blur and slammed into the opposite wall. It rebounded, hit the floor and bounced a few times, then rolled several feet down the hall.

"And take that gawddamned thing with you!" Makepeace shouted from within the infirmary.

Daniel and Johnson gaped at O'Neill, too stunned to say a word.

O'Neill turned to Johnson and told him with a smirk, "Your boss has absolutely no sense of humor," before beating a quick retreat down the hall.

"What was that all about?" Johnson asked, his bewildered gaze shifting from O'Neill's rapidly disappearing form to the infirmary door and back again.

Daniel bent down and picked up the projectile. He examined it, looking both appalled and amused. "I think this accounts for Colonel Makepeace's display of temper."

"What is it, Doc?"

Daniel slanted a roguish glance at Johnson, grinned and scratched his ear. He handed the prickly green object to Johnson, who stared at it in horror and choked out, "It's an artichoke."

"A cooked artichoke," Daniel clarified. "I think Colonel Makepeace was supposed to eat it. Kind of a revenge thing."

Johnson looked like he wanted to fling the artichoke away from him as hard as he could. Instead, he carefully handed the vegetable back to Daniel, saying, "_Your_ boss has a twisted and revolting sense of humor." His hands shook slightly, so he stuffed them into his pockets and stalked away.

Daniel shrugged. "That he does," he said softly, casting a wry, albeit sympathetic, glance into the infirmary. "That he does."

***** end *****

_September, 2001_


End file.
